


Fool Me Never

by Kali_Blue



Series: The False Godkiller [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Ashlander, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Dragons, Drunk Julan, Humor, Immortality, M/M, Morrowind, Mystery, Romance, Super Duper Drunk Julan, Very Drunk Julan, Very Very Drunk Julan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:55:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8545207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kali_Blue/pseuds/Kali_Blue
Summary: Julan, a centuries old dunmer with a very large chip on his shoulder, has had enough of ancient prophecies and gods with their warped designs on the mortal realm. Fleeing to Skyrim seems like a solid plan to escape all that. When dragons start appearing about the lands and an old lover returns, It seems fate has other ideas.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The Julan character is borrowed from the awesome Morrowind Mod by Kateri - I'm just borrowing him and popping him in Skyrim instead. 
> 
> While this is technically part 2 of a series, it's completely fine to start here. Part 1 is intended to be very short anyway, and this is heading in a different direction to what I originally intended.

The New Gnisis Corner Club was cramped, dark and smelled of piss and old ale. Not the kind of place Julan preferred, but in a city hostile to dunmer there were limited options when it came to drinking oneself stupid. On the plus side, there were few occupants lurking about the chairs and tables. All grey-skinned, red-eyed dumner. All in various stages of drunkenness. Only the barkeep was in any state of sobriety; a young, lean dumner man wearing a bored expression and a dark fuzz that could hardly be called a beard.

Julan eyeballed the bottom of his mug. In his semi-drunken state he’d come to the conclusion that if he stared long and hard enough, more mead would magically appear within.  He let out a disgusted noise when nothing happened.

‘More.’ He hiccuped at the barkeep, slamming his mug down on the bar and gazing accusingly at the elf. The barkeep held out a hand with a bland face. He’d suffered far worse abuse from the guards. A centuries old dunmer with a chip on his shoulder, and one who could barely stand, wasn’t much of a threat.      

Leaning slightly back on his stool, Julan muttered something that sounded like ‘youngsters these days’, before reaching for his coin purse at his hip. He slapped a coin in the dunmer’s hand. The Mer snatched the mug from Julan and ducked beneath the counter, appearing a moment later a full cup. 

‘Extortion.’  Julan muttered, before taking a large swig of his mug.

‘Then go to Candlehearth Inn if you don’t like what we charge, old man.’ The barkeep said flatly, pocketing the coin.

‘Perhaps I will,’ Julan retorted, stung by the comment. So what if he had a few streaks of grey in his otherwise black hair and crow’s feet in the corner’s of his red eyes. He had a few wrinkles here and there, certainly, but he still looked damn young for his age.  Far better than the Nords who grew white-haired and decrepit by the time they hit their thirties. If they lasted that long, which was rare.

The barkeep gave Julan a flat stare, ‘Please do. Still, I’d be amiss if I didn’t at least give you a friendly warning from one dunmer to another. It’s unlikely even an ancient elf like yourself would be welcome. That garb would likely get you killed as soon as you set foot there. But by all means, if you want to die, go ahead.’    

‘I can hold my own.’ Julan muttered, but there was no heat in his words. His current occupation as a Sellsword had left him with a singular distaste for maiming and killing unless circumstances forced him into it. He had no heart for a fight with anyone. 

Even the dunmer seemed to pick up the resignation in the Mer’s voice, and nodded to the sword at Julan’s belt.  ‘Perhaps. You’ve the look of a warrior about you – I’ll give you that. Still, even a Outlander like yourself won’t hold a candle to a dozen drunk Nords itching for a fight. Even more so when you’re up against a man with nothing to lose. At least most of us Grey Quarter elves have a roof over our heads - now a great many Nords don’t even have that- what with the dragons destroying the lives and livelihood of so many.’

Outlander.  He supposed his stubborn insistence on wearing tribal garb warranted the name. The first time the word had been thrown at him Julan had felt something very akin to culture shock. He’d once used that very word on someone, once, a long time ago. Then, that person had been the stranger in an alien land. Now? Well. Now Julan was the outsider.

‘Dragons. Yes, I’ve seen a few.’ Julan sighed, and placed his mug to the side. He’d left Morrowind to get away from world-ending calamities and gods with their own warped designs on the mortal realm. Not far away enough, it seemed. Wasn’t it just convenient that as soon as dragons had begun appearing , whispers and rumours of a hero, a mighty person with ‘the soul of dragon’, had sprung up all over skyrim. A courageous hero who would save them all.

It was all too familiar.

Julan would have no part in that, thank you. Just no. Julan had been there and done that. More than once. He’s lost friends and family to prophecies and world-shattering events that had changed his homeland forever. Lost a lover after he’d suddenly decided that a trip to Akavir, _a one way trip only_ , had suddenly come up on his itinerary and he’d made a spontaneous decision that his supposed ‘one true love’ couldn’t go with him. Oh no, cause’ Julan wanting to be with the man he’d loved unconditionally was just too damn much to ask.

Julan was a slightly more practical soul now. Now, the only thing he loved unconditionally was his drink.

Julan’s not sure how long ago that was – weeks and months seemed to bleed into each other these days. He didn’t measure time like he used to. Was it decades ago? Over a century? It was ironic that his memory of it was crystal clear, yet his recollection of _when_ it happened was vague at best.

‘I’ve heard a great deal about this dragonborn.’ Julan commented out loud, more to distract himself from painful memories than from any need to actually converse with his fellow dunmer.

‘You have?’ To his great surprise, the barkeep’s eyes went wide and a sort of awe entered them. Oh dear.  Julan hadn’t actually meant to start a conversation, but the barkeep nodded as though Julan hadn’t been crotchety to the young elf but a minute before. 

Julan had seen more than one chronic case of hero worship. He’d been subject to it himself. That didn’t mean he wanted to hear right now.

The Mer slid back slightly, a silent queue to the barkeep he was about to leave, but the young elf was nodding vigorously and seemed oblivious. He leaned forward conspiratorially and winked at Julan, ‘then you must be aware of the rumours?’

‘No,’ Julan slid back even further on his stool. If he’d had any confidence in his ability to stand and walk away then he would have.  What he wouldn’t give to actually be sober then and there. Damn it, he shouldn’t still be a damn lightweight when it came to the drink.

As though Julan hadn’t just spoken, the young elf continued to nod at Julan like a bobble-head toy, ‘it’s absolutely true, my friend, everything you’ve heard. I have it from an impeccable source. From my friend’s cousin’s mother’s brother. A guard at Whiterun. A Nord, but he’d honourable enough for one of his kind.’ The barkeeper stilled for a second and glanced at Julan as though sharing a wondrous secret. His voice dropped as he added in a dramatic whisper, ‘He saw it, saw the dragonborn cast down a dragon with nothing but her voice. The dragonborn is a young dunmer woman.’

Despite himself Julan felt a twinge of amusement at the awe lacing the youngster’s voice.  ‘Funny. The way most of Windhelm speak of it, I assumed the dragonborn was a male Nord. A warrior.’

‘All lies,’ The young dunmer waved at Julan in dismissal. ‘The Nords just don’t want to admit that a dunmer could be the saviour of Skyrim. That’s bad enough. But, oh, what’s even more exciting? She’s of noble blood!’

‘Uh-huh. And who supplied you with that last tidbit?’

‘My friend,’ the young dunmer supplied unhelpfully. ‘Who got it from another reliable source. A friend’s cousin’s cousin. He lives in Solstheim, from what I hear. I wonder which of the houses her lineage is from?’

‘Let me guess. Is her noble blood from her mother’s cousin’s sister’s great-great grandmother?’ Julan offered, which was promptly met with a glare. Oh dear, the young elf was far younger than Julan had thought. He was but a pup if he thought any links to those ancient Morrowind houses was anything to be proud of. Probably born in Skyrim or came from Morrowind young, if the accent was any indication.

Or it could be the Ashlander in Julan talking, who knew? Some ideas were rather hard to shake even after all this time. There’d always been a great hostility between his tribe and great swathes of the Morrowind population. Most of it, actually.

‘Do you know anything about the noble houses of Morrowind?’ Julan asked casually.

‘I know enough.’ The barkeep said coolly.

‘In other words, nothing,’ Julan smiled at the youngster. One of an elder bestowing a tolerant smile upon a youth. He rose to his feet, rather steadily for his intoxicated state. ‘I’ll think I’ll head back to my room if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Please do,’ came the cold reply.

Julan chuckled and tottered towards the stairs. On the plus side, at least he’d had the forethought to purchase a room for the night before insulting the Innkeeper, so at least he wouldn’t be sleeping on the street.


End file.
